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✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
i took an aspirin this morning. my next mood swing isn't up for at least twenty more minutes- let's try to remove the pizza scraps from last thanksgiving stashed in the gaps between my mattress and headboard, cease the fungus from impregnating my dreams.
i lick writings off the stalls of five-and-dime stores and spit lipstick on daddy's windshield in hopes that when it rains again and the static on the radio gives him nosebleeds, the headlights burn out down the highway. i never liked that old jeep of junk anyway.
sorry, i spilled milk on the razor blade and now my blood's not as pretty as overripe pomegranates! i'll be sure to smear my veins in champagne vomit as a temporary measurement while scraping december's frostbites from in between my toes.
my bad! is that too repelling for your hot-waxed, pearl-boned, ring-pop-sucking existence?
i'll tone it down a little. replace the ice cream soda with mouthwash and discard the warning labels- call it sunshine liquor. use my neck as a spare stand for mama's telephone wire, maybe she won't feel so sick of holding on to them anymore as aunt martha goes on and on about her son's murder down the alley the night before.
i binge-watched how to get away with murder a little too many times and i hope my tongue did a good job with my cousin's blood on nana's kitchen knife.
i hope the edges aren't too blunt, i hope nana doesn't struggle to chop the fresh celery i bought for her from the convenience store downtown. i hope the blood dripping from the stainless steel is just the raw steak.
now that would be a shame (?)
what is it? did you expect something different? perhaps stories from girlhood, skin splotched in the warmth of california sun, salt-soaked, barefoot, asphalt seeping through my thick skin, how the air smelled like gasoline and how my sliced lungs had loved the no-exit-sign-danger-bubble-rush.
i was raised, dressed in horse skin, watching dead poets society for family movie night. daddy took me on a train to nevada at the age of eleven, showed me a tombstone that read 'unknown man died eating library paste, july 14 1908' in red paint or blood, who the fuck knows. he cackled and spit on the american dirt. tell me, what did you expect when you sat down to read this?
i take sanctuary in a trashed balcony on the south side of town where shotgun is a child's teethers. where we dine on angel food and feign angel tears but at the end of the day, who in god's name are we fooling?
supernova is a synonym for self-slaughter and heartache is but a mirage of an expiring sun. carnage is an ancient metaphor, the world is already dead, gone.
what do you say you and i pour ourselves a glass of vitriol and chat about politics?
彡
inspired by mafloys 's works. 10/10 recommend reading their books because it's free drugs :')
